Boston
August 18, 1812
CHAPTER XVII
* * *
The sound of the front door opening and closing brought Kathleen Dunson to a standstill in her kitchen as she listened for the familiar sound of Matthew’s footsteps quietly crossing the parlor floor.
“Matthew?” she called softly.
“Me,” he answered in a whisper. “Children sleeping?”
“Yes. All but the twins.”
She twisted the handle to close the grate-setting on the stove firebox and walked to the archway into the dining room as Matthew came from the parlor. For a moment she felt the slight rise inside, as she always did when he appeared, and in the same moment she saw the tiny signs that more than twenty years of marriage had taught her. He had come home pensive, preoccupied, troubled.
She spoke first. “Sit down. There’s warm ham and potatoes in the oven.”
“Good. I could eat.”
She turned back into the kitchen. “Small wonder, coming home this late.”
“Things happened,” he replied. He took off his coat and hung it on the back of one of the chairs at the dining table, then tugged the knot loose on his cravat and draped it over the coat. He sat down at the great table, silent, listening to the sounds of the oven door and plates and silverware, and then she walked back into the dining room with a plate of steaming ham and potatoes in one hand and a pitcher of buttermilk in the other. She set them before him and for a moment took deep satisfaction in the light that came into his eyes.
“Be right back,” she said and moments later returned from the kitchen with sliced bread, butter, and a bowl of applesauce.
“That enough?” she asked.
He looked at her with the beginnings of a smile. “For starters.”
She stood beside him while he bowed his head and returned thanks for the bounties of life, then sat down in a chair beside him, feeling that rare joy known only to wives and mothers, of seeing the pleasure in his face as he gratefully ate what her hands had prepared. He was spreading home-churned butter on home-baked bread when the sound of a single chime came from the large, engraved clock on the parlor mantel, crafted by Matthew’s father thirty years earlier.
Matthew paused. “Nine-thirty?”
A wry smile crossed her face. “Nine-thirty pm.”
He understood the gentle reprimand. “Sorry. Things happened. Where was it the twins were going tonight?”
“The theatre. Hamlet.”
“With those two young men?”
Kathleen nodded. “Linda with Robert Littlefield, Louise with Charles Penn. All four together. They’ll be all right.”
“Home by midnight?” Matthew asked.
“I told them. They’ll be here.”
Kathleen leaned forward to straighten her gray ankle-length housedress and rub her feet through her knitted woolen slippers. “It’s been a long, hot day.”
Matthew bit into the bread.
Kathleen continued. “Brigitte came by. She’d been at Margaret’s. Said your mother had another of those spells today. Couldn’t keep her balance.”
Matthew paused. “Get her to the doctor?”
“The doctor came to her. Gave her some medicine—I don’t know what. Told her to stay off her feet as much as she could for a day or two.”
“Someone with her now?”
“Brigitte for tonight. My turn tomorrow night if she needs it.”
Matthew asked, “Should I go over to see her? Now?”
Kathleen shook her head. “She’s sleeping. I think the doctor gave her medicine to help her sleep.”
Matthew continued eating, and Kathleen waited for a time before she interrupted. “Got a minute to talk?”
Matthew stopped eating, waiting, and Kathleen went on.
“Part of you is still at the office. Something wrong?”
Matthew laid his knife and fork on his plate and straightened in his chair. For a moment he looked into her eyes and then spoke.
“It’s Adam. You know he left about three weeks ago. To go north, up to the Great Lakes. Converted our ship Margaret to a gunboat and sailed up to help on Lake Ontario. We haven’t heard from him. That’s not like Adam.”
She shrugged. “There has to be a good reason. Maybe the mail was lost. Things happen in war.”
Matthew leaned back in his chair. “There’s more. There was talk down at the docks this afternoon. A crew just back from the Great Lakes. They said the British overran Fort Detroit three days ago. Fort Detroit is far to the west. East of Fort Detroit, our troops at Niagara and Montreal are in trouble. Bad. If that’s all true, Adam could be a prisoner of war right now. I doubt it, but it’s possible.”
Concern came into Kathleen’s face. “Isn’t there something our army can do about it? Send someone up to find out what’s happening up there?”
Matthew drew a deep breath, and Kathleen saw the look in his eyes that said he dreaded what had to be said next.
“That’s not all. You know that John’s been gone since August second with Captain Hull on the Constitution.”
Kathleen stopped moving, waiting for Matthew to continue.
“Their orders were to seek and destroy British men-o’-war. He’s been as far north as Newfoundland and the Gulf of Saint Lawrence. If it’s true we’ve lost Fort Detroit, and the campaigns for Niagara and Montreal are in trouble, was he up there when it all happened? And if he was, did the British take the Constitution? I’m worried about what might have happened to him.”
Kathleen’s breathing slowed, and Matthew saw the mortal fear leap in her eyes as she spoke with words that came slow, measured. “Matthew, are you telling me everything? Is John dead?”
He shook his head and raised a hand. “No one on the docks said anything that even suggested that. I think he’s all right. I know the captain of the Constitution. Isaac Hull. One of our best. Remember? Five British frigates couldn’t catch him. It’s near certain the Constitution is all right. It’s just a worry.”
Kathleen sat in silence watching Matthew finish his supper, then stacked the dishes to carry them into the kitchen, Matthew following. She poured steaming water from the stove into a small wooden basin and washed them while Matthew wiped them one at a time and set them in their place in the cupboard. He carried the tub of dishwater out the kitchen door to throw it into the dark backyard while Kathleen carried the buttermilk and ham to the root cellar.
Back inside the house, in the light of the lamps, Matthew yawned. “Getting late.”
“You go on to bed. I’ll wait for the twins.”
“I’ll wait with you.”
“No need. I’ll knit.”
“Sure?”
“You go ahead.”
“I’ll bank the fireplace before I go,” he said. In the cold of winter or the heat of summer, the fire in the fireplace had to be maintained if there was cooking to be done. It was there the pots were hung from arms that swung out or in. Matthew used the small brass shovel to heap the coals in a single pile against the rear wall of the parlor fireplace, replaced it in its rack with the brush, tongs, and poker, straightened, and called back to Kathleen, still in the kitchen.
“Want to come for evening prayers?”
They walked quietly down the hall into their bedroom and knelt together at the side of their bed with their heads bowed and hands clasped before them while Matthew softly prayed.
“Almighty Father of us all, we thank thee for the blessings of this day. . . .”
He leaned to gently kiss his wife, and she rose as he sat down on the bed to remove his shoes.
“I’ll wake you when the twins get home if anything’s wrong,” she said.
He nodded, and she turned to walk out the door and close it behind, then on down the shadowy hall to the parlor. She opened the bottom door of the great china hutch to get her knitting bag and sat down in her overstuffed chair to draw out the two long bamboo needles and the half-finished set of tiny blue booties for her grandson, James. The needles began to click in a steady rhythm as she mechanically continued, unconsciously counting as she looped the yarn on the needles—knit three, purl two—with her thoughts running.
Adam—up where the British are in control—John—somewhere on the Atlantic Ocean hunting for British warships to fight—has his ship found them?—has there been a battle?—is he all right?—is he wounded?—dead?
She swallowed against the anxiety in her mother’s heart. Where is he tonight? Where?
* * * * *
At ten o’clock, beneath clouds gathering in the black Atlantic sky seven hundred fifty-two miles due east of Boston, John Dunson stood on the quarterdeck of the USS Constitution, feet spread slightly for balance against the gentle undulations of the ship, face tipped up, intently studying the position of the stars. It all hinged on the two stars that formed one end of the big dipper. Extend the straight line formed by the two, and it pointed directly at the North Star. Always. All other constellations in the summer sky in the northern hemisphere—Scorpius, Orion—related to the North Star.
John made his reckoning of where the ship was, then stood for a time feeling the freshening wind quartering in from the northwest and felt the rise and fall and roll of the ship as she sped southeast, sails full. He listened to the whisper of the wind in the rigging, and the murmur of the thirty-foot curl the frigate was cutting in the dark water, and he felt the rise of spirit that binds men to the sea.
He flinched at the unexpected sound of the voice of Captain Isaac Hull behind him.
“Mister Dunson, where are we?”
“Just about seven hundred fifty-five miles due east of Boston, sir.”
Hull walked up beside him, hands clasped behind his back, peering into the heavens. He raised one hand to point. “North Star. Interesting. Locate that star and all other things in the heavens fall into place.”
“Yes, sir.”
A little time passed with both men silent, studying the black vastness above, conscious of the profound and fragile smallness of themselves and their ship on the wide ocean, beneath the eternity overhead. Hull once again gestured to the North Star, and there was a quiet reverence in his voice.
“A little like life, wouldn’t you say?”
For a time John did not answer, and then he said, “I would, sir. If you can find your own North Star.”
“Hmmm,” Hull murmured. “Well said.”
For a time the two men stood together, not as captain and navigator, but as companions. Two small men on a tiny ship, unexpectedly caught up in the riddle of who they were, from whence they had come to arrive in this life, and whither they were going when they left it. They understood that in the mortal world all around them there was good and there was evil, and each had its champion; and every human being on earth must choose between them in the time they were allowed to remain. But what then? The Almighty would judge their lives, and they would be consigned to either heaven or perdition? For all eternity? What would they find in heaven? Loved ones? Would they recognize them? And what of perdition? Burning in eternal flames, but never consumed?
The power of it held them in silence for a time before it began to recede, and as it dwindled John’s arm suddenly shot up, pointing.
“Lights! There! Dead ahead!”
Instantly Hull was at the railing, searching, and suddenly he exclaimed, “There. I see it.” He shouted up to the watch in the crow’s nest, “Ship dead ahead! Can you see her?”
Seconds later the answer came from seventy feet above. “Yes, sir. Less than two miles. Coming in dead on the bow.”
Hull called to the helmsman, “Hold course until we intercept that ship.”
“Aye, sir.”
The deck crew on duty crowded the rail, watching the running lights of the distant ship draw closer, straining to see the flag she was flying, knowing they could not in the black of night. First mate Erling Strand, tall in the darkness, bolted up the few steps to the quarterdeck, still buttoning his tunic, wide-eyed.
“Trouble?” he exclaimed.
Hull pointed. “Unidentified ship.”
Strand bobbed his head and took his place beside Hull.
Steadily the two ships closed, with Captain Hull watching, judging time and distance. He spoke once again to the helmsman.
“Port for about three minutes, then starboard. Bring us across her bow at fifty yards.”
“Aye, sir.”
He turned to the deck crew. “Get ready to spill the sails.”
“Aye, sir.” Barefoot sailors climbed the rope ladders in the blackness and walked the ropes on the arms crabwise, ready to loose the sails and spill the wind. The Constitution leaned as she made the left turn, then straightened to resume her course due south, then leaned again as she made the right turn that brought her in from the starboard side of the oncoming ship. Hull judged the two vessels to be about one hundred yards apart when he called up to the men in the rigging, “Spill the sails!”
The sails shifted to empty the wind, and the frigate slowed in the water. It was fifty yards in front of the unidentified ship when it stopped, and the oncoming vessel also slowed to a stop.
Hull raised his horn. “Hello the unidentified ship. I am the USS Constitution. Captain Isaac Hull. Recently out of Boston. Identify yourself. Identify yourself.” The shout seemed strangely loud in the darkness.
Seconds passed before the answer came. “I am the Trinidad. Captain Theodore Pullman. Privateer. Salem, Massachusetts.”
Hull looked at Strand, then John, and both men nodded their heads. The voice was decidedly Yankee. The ship was friendly.
“Do you need assistance?” Hull called.
“No. We are sound. Are you?”
Hull answered, “Yes. We are sound. Have you seen British ships to the south?”
“Yes. One. Yesterday. Due south. We avoided her. Are there British ships to the north?”
“We have seen none in the past two days.”
The Trinidad answered, “We shall proceed north to our home port.”
On Hull’s orders, the Constitution shifted her sails, and they caught the wind, and she made her turn south. Without further exchange the two vessels passed in the night, traveling opposite directions. Strand turned to Hull.
“Sir, is it our intention to find that British ship to the south of us?”
“If we can.”
The deck crew changed twice in the night, while Hull and Strand relieved each other on four-hour intervals. John remained by the helmsman, taking his bearings by the stars, holding the ship on her course due south. The morning star faded, and the eastern sky brightened to give definition to a world with a fresh northwest wind, driving the frigate south on a choppy sea. Morning mess was finished when the first clouds appeared, moving fast in the wind. By midmorning the gather of clouds covered the sun, and the crew of the Constitution glanced upward, judging whether they were to have heavy weather. The midday mess was finished and the deck crew was changing when the shout came from the crow’s nest.
“Sail! Two miles south. Bearing east southeast!”
Every man on the main deck of the Constitution jammed against the railings at the bow of the ship, shading his eyes to peer south.
Hull called to the crow’s nest, “Can you make out her colors?”
“No, sir. She’s not flying colors.”
John exclaimed, “She has to be the British gunboat the Trinidad reported!”
Hull pursed his mouth for a moment. “We’ll find out. Mister Dunson, can you give me our exact location?”
“Yes, sir. I shot the sun ten minutes ago. Latitude forty-one degrees thirty minutes north, fifty degrees west.”
“Very good.” He turned to Strand. “Add another reef to the top sails. Let’s see if we can catch her.”
Within minutes, her bow knifing through the rough, wind-tossed Atlantic, masts creaking under the pressure of sails full and billowing, the fleet American frigate was gaining on the distant ship. Time passed without notice as the gap between the racing ships shortened. The hidden sun was slipping toward the western horizon when the leading ship suddenly sent her colors to the top of her mainmast.
The Union Jack! The red, white, and blue crosses of the Union Jack!
A spontaneous shout erupted aboard the Constitution, and Hull called his orders to Strand.
“Hoist our colors!”
Within minutes the stars and stripes were snapping in the heavy wind at the top of the mainmast, and there was controlled excitement in Hull’s voice.
“Mister Strand, have the gun crews stand by for loading. Solid round shot.”
“Aye, sir.”
The men were sprinting to their guns before Strand could repeat the order. John was standing on the quarterdeck, between Hull and the helmsman, extending his telescope to study the movement of the crew on the British ship and trying to make out her name, carved beneath the small windows into the captain’s quarters in the stern. Both Hull and Strand extended their telescopes, straining to make out the name.
“Guerriere,” John exclaimed. “She’s the Guerriere! Captain James Dacres! She’s one of the five that couldn’t catch us four weeks ago!”
A light came into Hull’s face. “So she is,” he said quietly. “Let’s see how well she does in a fair fight.”
For a time the American frigate held its pace, slicing through the whitecaps, gaining on the British gunboat, with Hull, Strand, and John watching every move of the crew and the changes in heading taken by the ship. First port, then starboard, then back to port. Then suddenly the cannon on the stern of the Guerriere blasted and the white smoke billowed and the cannonballs came humming to raise fifteen-foot geysers in the sea, forty yards short of the Constitution, with the American frigate holding her pace, closing fast. The British gunboat turned hard to bring the cannon on her port side to bear, and again the guns roared and the shot came whistling. Two struck the hull of the Constitution, while the remainder passed over her decks to punch a few holes in the rigging while the American crew involuntarily ducked and instinctively turned to watch the shot fall into the sea beyond them.
The British ship turned sharply to starboard, this time to bring her starboard cannon to bear, and again her guns roared and the smoke billowed, but none of the cannonballs hit. Again she turned sharply, back to port, to bring her reloaded cannon to bear, and Hull watched intently as they fired, and again the shot plowed harmlessly into the rough sea.
Hull turned to John and his helmsman. “She’s setting a course that swings back and forth to bring her guns to bear, first port, then starboard, to rake us. Set a course to counter her moves! When she turns to port, we turn to starboard.”
“Aye, sir.”
He spoke to Strand. “Have the gun crews fire only occasionally, when our guns come to bear. Let them think we are inept with our cannon.”
“Aye, sir.”
Light was beginning to fade beneath the dark clouds with Hull hunched forward, watching every move of the British vessel when suddenly he pointed. “A mistake! She made a mistake! We can come broadside from her port beam!” He spun in the wind to shout, “Mister Helmsman, bring us broadside on her port beam.”
The Constitution cut sharply to starboard, then straightened, and her port side passed the stern starboard of the British ship, with the twenty-two American port-side guns coming to bear in order as they passed. As they did, the heavy cannon blasted in sequence, and the few British guns that could be brought to bear, answered. The Constitution raced ahead, passing the Guerriere broadside, and again the great guns on both ships bucked and roared and the shot came humming through the white smoke that was whipped to the south by the wind whistling in the rigging. An American seaman saw two twenty-four pound British cannonballs slam into the reinforced side of the Humphreys frigate and rebound to fall harmlessly into the sea.
“She’s got sides like iron,” he exclaimed. The seaman next to him turned to stare at him, then shouted to others nearby, “Old Ironsides! The British can’t sink Old Ironsides!”
The crews on both ships were frantically reloading, but the American crews were ten seconds faster than the British, and they delivered their second broadside at near point-blank range. The shot tore into the railing and the British gunports and crews, and three thirty-two pound cannonballs smashed into the mizzenmast to cut it nearly through. Captain James Richard Dacres watched white-faced as the mast toppled over the starboard quarter to knock a huge hole in the deck and swing the crippled ship around against her own helm. The British ship slowed, unable to maintain speed, only partially responding to the rudder.
Quickly Hull turned to see the damage to his own ship, and his shoulders slumped in relief. The Constitution was sound, virtually unharmed. Hull shouted to his helmsman.
“Hard to port! Bring her around with the starboard guns coming to bear!”
The American frigate swung hard, and the starboard guns came to bear in raking order, and once more ripped loose in sequence. The cannonballs cut the arm on the mainmast in half, and the main sails ripped free to flutter in the wind.
“Hard to starboard,” Hull shouted, and the Constitution swung past the bow of the crippled Guerriere to once again rake her with her port guns, so close that the bowsprit of the British frigate passed over the quarterdeck of the American ship, and as the Constitution turned away, her rigging caught foul in the fallen mizzenmast of the British ship. The hawsers snapped tight and held, and the American frigate was jerked to a halt in the wind-driven seas with the Guerriere’s starboard bow slammed tight against her own port stern. Both ships were wallowing in the heavy seas, side by side, unable to separate.
The British guns opened up on the stern of the American ship, and in minutes the windows of Captain Hull’s quarters were blasted away and the interior of the small quarters was burning. John leaped from the quarterdeck to the main deck and grabbed two seamen by their shirt fronts. They quickly filled four buckets with water before he led them down into the smoke and flames of Hull’s tiny quarters. They threw the water and then beat the flames with blankets until they were gone, then sprinted back to the main deck to hear the cracking of muskets from the decks on both ships as the crews faced each other, each trying to board the other ship, both finding that the pitch and roll of the ships in the heavy seas made it impossible. Seamen on both ships were staggering back, hit, wounded, dying, from the banging muskets.
It happened suddenly. One moment Captain Dacres was shouting with his sword held high above his head, and the next moment the sword clanged onto the deck as he staggered back and slammed into a hatch cover, then fell forward to his knees and slumped face down onto the deck of his ship, an American musket ball lodged in his back. His life hung in the balance. Within moments the wind and the wallowing seas had turned the ships to tear them apart. As they separated, the shattered mizzenmast on the British frigate fell into the sea, and as it did, the ship tilted violently to starboard. Her main-deck guns could not hold in the gun ports. They rolled to the starboard side and smashed through the railing to fall into the sea with the mizzenmast. The Guerriere was mortally wounded, a defenseless hulk at the mercy of the harsh Atlantic and the guns of the American Constitution. Her captain was down, unconscious, battling for his life.
Hull drew the Constitution to a stop a scant fifty yards from the stern of the British frigate to get a damage report to his own ship and start repairs, and to give the Guerriere time to take stock of her defenseless position. The report came quickly. The ship was sound. Some of the yards had taken damage, but all were still functional. All masts were sound. The hull was unharmed. He had lost seven of his crew, with seven others wounded. The Constitution was in all particulars seaworthy and her crew sufficient to man her in all weather.
Aboard the Guerriere, almost every officer on the quarterdeck had gone down in the first volley of musket fire from the American marines. Twenty-three were dead, fifty-six wounded. Captain Dacres was unconscious. His first lieutenant, Bartholomew Kent, and his master, Robert Scott, were down, along with two master’s mates and their young lieutenant midshipman—all from American musket fire. None of the officers were coherent, nor could they take command.
At seven o’clock pm, the Guerriere struck her colors. It was over.
Cautiously, Hull brought the Constitution alongside and attempted to board the dying ship with medical help but was driven back by the wind and the surging seas. He remained close to the British ship through the night, watching her running lights, ready to try the impossible should she begin to sink, calling to her with his horn every half hour. The wind lessened during the night, and by four o’clock the ships were riding on smoother waters. Dawn brought the realization that the Guerriere was sinking. She would not remain afloat through the day.
Hull gave his orders, and morning mess was forgotten as his crew tied the two ships together and began the transfer of prisoners and the ship’s log and other important papers and the war chest from the Guerriere to the Constitution. By three o’clock in the afternoon, beneath clear skies, they had completed their work. Hull sent a squad of ten men onto what was left of the British man-of-war with torches, and waited while they disappeared below decks for ten minutes, then reappeared to come back aboard the American ship. They released the hawsers binding the ships together, the Constitution unfurled her sails, they caught the wind, and she distanced herself from the column of black smoke rising from the burning hulk.
Fifteen minutes later, what was left of the Guerriere exploded to blow shards of metal and wood two hundred feet in the air and scatter it for half a mile on the sea. Hull gave all British seamen the right to stand at attention on the deck of the American ship to bid their own ship farewell.
It was in the evening, after mess, that Captain Dacres opened his eyes. It took several moments for him to understand he was in the burned-out quarters of Captain Hull, in Captain Hull’s bed, with the American surgeon seated by his side, watching his every move, counting the slow regularity of his breathing.
Dacres cleared his throat and tried to speak.
“You lie still,” the old, gray doctor said.
“Bring Captain Hull,” Dacres murmured.
Five minutes later, Hull entered the quarters with John Dunson at his side and knelt beside his own bed to look into Dacres’s eyes.
“You wanted me, sir?”
The wounded captain’s voice was faint. “Yes. Should I not survive, I want you to know. You have treated us as a brave and generous enemy should. We have had the greatest care. You have seen to it we did not want for the smallest trifle that was in your power to provide. My log and my letter to His Majesty’s Navy shall so state, if I am allowed to live long enough to make the entries.”
Hull looked into his face. “I gave you nothing you did not deserve. Nothing you would not have done had the fortunes of battle fallen in your favor, sir.”
A faint smile formed on Dacres’s lips, and his eyes closed as he drifted into sleep. Hull waited until the surgeon nodded that Dacres would survive, then made his way back to the quarterdeck with John following. The second night crew had taken their stations when John Dunson took his bearings from the stars, with Captain Hull standing next to the helmsman.
Hull spoke. “May I know where we are, Mister Dunson?”
“Yes, sir. Just about seven hundred sixty miles east and a little south of Boston.”
“In miles, not far from where we were this time last night.”
“No, sir, not far.”
“In life? Experience?” He shook his head gently. “We came a long way in the last twenty-four hours. Thirty brave men dead. Sixty-three wounded. A great ship on the bottom of the Atlantic.”
John’s answer came quietly. “Yes, sir. A long way.”
Hull cleared his throat. “Mister Dunson, is the North Star still there?”
“As always.”
“Interesting. Wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes. Interesting.”
Notes
On the night of August 18, 1812, the United States naval frigate Constitution, under command of Captain Isaac Hull, was on a mission to search the Atlantic seaboard for British warships and engage them. He had been as far north as Nova Scotia and Newfoundland and the Gulf of Saint Lawrence before returning to waters off the American coast. That night he sighted an American privateer that was out of Salem, Massachusetts, who reported a British man-of-war to the south. Captain Hull sailed south in search of the British frigate, and at two o’clock pm on August 19, sighted her two hundred fifty miles due east of Boston, in overcast, windy weather that caused heavy seas. He engaged her. The longitude and latitude of the Constitution at the time is as recorded in this chapter.
The battle between the two warships is as described herein, with the Guerriere traveling what would be called a zigzag course, with the Constitution countering her moves. The ships fired a few rounds at each other with little damage. Then the American ship came alongside the British ship and they both fired broadsides. The British ship took much the worst of it, with her mizzenmast destroyed, lying at an awkward angle on her deck. The American ship came back around and continued with broadsides that cut the British ship to pieces and toppled her mainmast; however, the two came into such close proximity that the bowsprit of the British ship was thrust over the quarterdeck of the American ship. Shortly thereafter, their riggings became entangled, locking the British ship against the American ship, toward the stern. The British cannon blasted the captain’s quarters and set them afire. The flames were not extinguished by John Dunson, who is a fictional character, but by an American Lieutenant Hoffmann.
During the time the ships were locked together, musket fire from both crews was exchanged, with losses and wounded on each side—seven Americans dead, seven wounded, twenty-three British dead, fifty-six wounded. An American seaman saw a British cannonball bounce off the side of the Constitution and exclaimed, “Her sides are made of iron!” Others heard it, and the legend of “Old Ironsides” was born.
Among the severely wounded on the British ship was the captain, James Richard Dacres, who took an American musket ball in his back. All officers on the British quarterdeck were hit by American musket balls. Then the ships were torn apart by the heavy seas, and the Constitution drew off a short distance to take stock of her losses. The ship was sound, and her dead and wounded did not affect her ability to man the ship. The Guerriere, however, had two of her masts shot off, and one of them finally fell into the sea, tipping the ship so violently that her cannon fell overboard. She was a mortally wounded, helpless hulk. Because of the heavy seas, it was impossible for the Constitution to transfer the British crew to safety after the battle, but Captain Hull stayed close to the sinking Guerriere through the night, and when morning brought smoother seas, he transferred the entire British crew to the safety of his own ship.
Captain Dacres survived his serious back wound, and his official report to the British navy of his loss of the Guerriere included praise for Captain Hull for his care of the British crew. The statements appearing in this chapter by the wounded Captain Dacres to Captain Hull are very close to a verbatim quotation of how they appeared in his official report.
For a definition of the nautical terms used herein, such as frigate, topsail, quarterdeck, etc., see the glossary in Malcomson, Lords of the Lake, pp. 343–52.
See also Roosevelt, The Naval War of 1812, pp. 51–54, and for a detailed diagram of the strange zigzag route of both ships, see page 53; Wills, James Madison, p. 115; Hickey, The War of 1812, pp. 93–94.